Moments of inspiration
It was sometime in 1997, I think. One day I was flipping channels on my TV, and I happened upon an interview with a man who fascinated me. I didn’t recognize him. It was on a local cable channel. I caught the interview in the middle, and at no point did anyone say who he was. I didn’t care. I sat and watched with rapt attention. I was so impressed with what he was talking about I hit Record on my VCR (I might still have the tape somewhere). The man appeared to be looking at an interviewer as he spoke, but I didn’t hear any questions asked. He seemed to be talking about the history of Western civilization, how it developed from the Middle Ages onward. He wove in the development of technology and how it influenced civilization. This was amazing to me.
I remember he said that children were considered adults at the age of 7, hundreds of years ago. When students went to college they wrote their own textbooks, which were their lecture notes. When they completed their textbooks, they got their degrees. I think he said after that they were considered worthy to become professors, and this was how knowledge perpetuated from one generation to the next.
Moving up into recent history, I remember he talked about his observation of societal trends in the 1990s. He said something about how in a democracy the idea was we should be able to discuss issues with each other, no matter how controversial, as if the argument was separate from ourselves. The idea was we were to consider arguments objectively. This way we could criticize each other’s arguments without making it personal. He said at the time that our society had entered a dangerous phase, and I think he said it was reminiscent of a time in Western civilization centuries ago, where we could not talk about certain issues without others considering those who brought them up a threat. I remember he said something like, “I’ve talked to President Clinton, and he understands this.”
He shifted to talking about technology concepts that were written about 40-50 years earlier. He talked about Vannevar Bush, and his paper “As We May Think”. He talked about Bush’s conceptual Memex machine, that it would be the size of a desk, and that he had come up with a concept we would now call hyperlinking. He remarked that Bush was a very forward-thinking man. He said Bush envisioned that information would be stored on “optical discs”. This phrase really jumped out at me, and it blew me away. I knew that the laser wasn’t invented until the 1950s. “How could Bush have imagined laserdiscs?”, I thought (I misunderstood).
He ended his talk with the idea of agents in a computer system, a concept that was written about in the 1960s. The idea was these would be programs that would search systems and networks for specific sets of information on behalf of a user. He named the author of a paper on it, but I can’t remember now. I think he said something about how even though these ideas were thought about and written about years ago, long before there was technology capable of implementing them, they were still being developed in the 1990s. The span of history he spoke about had an impact on me. In terms of the history related to technology concepts, all I could grasp was the idea of hyperlinking. The rest felt too esoteric.
Once I started interacting with customers in my work I wanted to please them above all. Working on something and having the customer reject it was the biggest downer, even if the software’s innards were like a work of art to me. There was this constant tension with me, between creating an elegant solution and getting s__t done. I was convinced by my peers that my desire to create elegant solutions was just something eccentric about me. All code was good for was creating the end product. Who cared if it looked like spaghetti code? The customer certainly didn’t. I became convinced they were right. My operating philosophy became, “We may try for elegance, but ultimately the only thing that matters is delivering the product.” Really what it boiled down to was making the computer do something. Us engineers cared how that happened, how it was done, but no one else did, and they still don’t.
I quit my job in 1999. I became interested in C++, because I saw that most programming want ads were requiring it. In an exercise to learn it I decided to port a program I had written in C for my Atari STe back in 1993, to C++ for DOS. Around 1992 I had watched a program on the formation of our solar system. My memory is it went into more detail than I had seen before. It talked about how the solid inner planets were formed from rocky material, and that they grew via. meteor collisions. Previous explanations I’d seen had just focused on the “big picture”, saying that a cloud of gas and dust formed into a disc, and that eddies formed in it, and that eventually planets condensed out of that. Very vague. I decided in 1993 to try to write a simulator that would model the “collision” interactions I heard described in the 1992 show to see if it would work. I called it “orbit”. I created a particle system, where each object was the same mass, and interacted with every other object gravitationally, using Newton’s formula. Unfortunately my Atari was too slow to really do much with this. I was able to get a neat thing going where I could get one object to orbit another one that was stationary. A college friend of mine, who got a degree in aeronautical engineering, helped me out with this. When I got into multiple objects, it wasn’t that interesting. My Atari could run at 16 Mhz, but this enabled maybe ten gravitational objects to be on the screen. If I did more than that the computer would really bog down.
Re-writing it in C++ was nice. I could really localize functionality so that I didn’t have to worry about side-effects, and I enjoyed the ability to derive an object from another one and really leverage the base class. I got the simulator working at first on an old 33 Mhz 386, and then on a 166 Mhz Pentium I. I started with about 30-50 objects on screen at once. When I moved it up to the Pentium I was able to put a few hundred objects in it at one time. It ran at a decent speed. I randomized the masses as well, to make things a little more interesting.
I would just sit and watch the interactions. Out of the mass of dots on the screen I could focus on a few that were circling around each other, dancing almost. It was delightful to watch! It was the first time I was actually fascinated by something I had written. I had put some collision code in it so that if two or more objects hit each other they would form one mass (the mass being the sum of the colliders), and the new momentum would be calculated. I would sit and watch as a lot of objects bumped into each other, forming new masses. What tended to happen was not what I expected: eventually all of the masses would drift off the screen. I tried various ways of stopping this from happening, like making the objects wrap around (this just resulted in a few objects zipping by at a zillion miles per hour), or causing them to stop at the edges of the screen and then let gravity draw them back in (this ultimately didn’t work–they’d tend to congregate at the edges). The solution I finally hit upon was to “re-materialize” them at the center of the screen each time they drifted off. This seemed to create a “thriving” system that didn’t die. I had to concede that such a system was no longer realistic. It was still interesting though. Sometimes I’d let the simulator run for a few hours, and then I’d check back to see what had happened. In one case it spontaneously formed a stable orbiting system of a couple “planets”, with several objects scattered around the screen that were so massive they never moved. It didn’t form a solar system as we know it, but it did form a couple centers of gravity. Interesting.
I had ideas about creating a scalable graphics display so that I could create a larger “universe” than just the dimensions of the screen, and perhaps see if things would work out without me having to resort to these tricks, but I didn’t get around to it.
Fast forward three years…
As I was trying to acquire skills and keep up, I’d listen to podcasts recorded by developers. This was just coming on the scene. It was one way I tried to keep up on the current trends. You don’t want to get behind the trend, lest you become irrelevant in the field. In a couple podcasts I heard the host ask a guest, “What software product that you’ve worked on would you like put on your tombstone? What would you like to be in your epitaph?” These were kind of profound questions. I tried asking them of myself, and I couldn’t answer them. Nothing I’d worked on for my work felt that significant compared to what else I saw out there in the commercial market. I tried asking myself, “If I could work anyplace I wanted, that I could think of, is there anything they’re working on that I’d like to be remembered for, if I had worked on it?” I couldn’t think of anything. They just didn’t seem that interesting. I put the question aside and continued on with my work.
Inside, though, I knew I wanted what I wrote (in code) to mean something, not just to the people who used it, but to other programmers as well. I did not wish this for myself in order to receive kudos. It was part of my own personal integrity. I was capable of just grinding out sloppy code if that was required of me, but I was embarrassed by it in the end. I could use development IDE tools and frameworks, which I initially embraced, but in the end I felt like a plumber. I was spending half my time with the technologies just connecting things together, and converting pieces of data from one thing to another.
I had a couple experiences in the work world that made me feel like my heart wasn’t in it anymore. There were good times as well. I had an opportunity to work with an excellent team of people for a few years at one place I worked in the 1990’s. It wasn’t enough though. The only thing I could think to do was to continue my IT work. I didn’t have any alternative careers that I looked forward to, but dissatisfaction was growing within me.